Tell Me About Your Mother
by Elliptic Eye
Summary: A defining moment wherein a true friend helps the young Theta Sigma look deep within himself and understand the ways in which he is a wanker. Remix of Neutralalienist's "An Enlightening Session"


A/N: This is a pinch-hit remix of LJ's neutralalienist's "An Enlightening Session," which can be found here: .. This probably works best if one's read the original story, but as the original story is absolutely lovely, it all works out.

Tell Me About Your Mother (the Slightly Freudian Remix)

Gallifrey didn't have therapists, as such. It did, however, contain experts on the Gallifreyan mind, and on occasion they used this expertise to write recondite papers no less than forty percent footnotes by volume, which they then read to each other so that everyone could then insult everyone else's footnotes behind their backs. When faculty had troubled students who needed help, they generally turned them over to eager grad students who were hoping to discover a brand-new psychosis.

"I'm not troubled," said Theta Sigma, nervous now that he stood before the door marked _Psychiatric Evaluation._

Borusa's post-doctoral assistant Ban'gon tightened his iron grip on Theta's arm. "You have explicitly said that you are troubled."

"I said my soul was a roiling storm of rage and defiance. That's different, I just cultivate that bit so I can write poetry."

Ban'gon snorted. "Poetry! A degenerate occupation in itself and little help to your case, Theta Sigma."

"Oh, you dried up, reactionary—maybe it doesn't help my case much, but it's still a very different thing to being 'troubled'. Which I'm not."

"Well, then, you had better get that way, because being _troubled_ is the only thing standing between you and expulsion." With a buzz and a hiss, the door finally slid open, and Ban'gon grabbed Theta by the scruff of the neck and bowled him inside.

"Subnorm," Theta muttered, yanking his robes back into place.

"Him, or you?"

Theta's head jerked up, for there was something odd about that voice. Suaver than he'd expected, for one. Far less academic.

Oh, no, this man wasn't what he'd expected at all. Full head of dark hair, wide eyes, a distinctly amused curve to his lips. A black Nehru jacket in broadcloth. A rather splendid goatee.

The man gestured with a gloved hand. "Have a seat, my dear Theta. I brought a couch in especially for you. I always decorate for the occasion."

Theta looked, then looked again. "Is that from Earth? That's my favorite planet," he blurted.

The therapist made a fairly indescribable face. "I know."

"You've done your research, then. Do you pay this much disturbing attention to detail for everyone?"

"Never mind that. I'm not here to talk about sofas, even reasonably comfortable ones."

Theta grimaced. "Of course you're not. You're here to tell me to straighten up and crunch numbers right."

"Nothing of the sort. I'm here to _understand."_

Theta gaped at him in pure terror. It was worse than he'd ever dreamt.

The therapist sighed. "Sit down. Here is the agenda: I am going to ask you a number of questions in order to file forms certifying your emotional state with the office of the dean, explaining why you are fit enough to continue your studies but sufficiently disturbed that you should be pardoned for calling Tutor Borusa's lectures"—he consulted a primitive notepad—"'half-metabolized Arcturian wombat cud'. You are going to answer those questions. Together, we will have an enlightening session wherein you discover that you are merely a confused and lonely boy in need of a little guidance. Then you will return to the Academy, and the next time you sabotage a senior student's experiments with pheromones, try to be a bit more subtle, try to be a bit more timely, and for Rassilon's sake don't do it with Borusa in the room."

Theta glowered. "What if getting out of this place is exactly what I want?"

"But is it? Is it really, Theta Sigma? Do you really want to forfeit your birthright and the secrets of time travel? Search deep within your hearts before you answer. Do you? Not," added the therapist, "that I have a vested interest in maintaining the integrity of a particular timeline."

Theta threw himself down upon the couch. "I don't really want to be expelled from the Academy," he confessed on sudden impulse. "It's just that I see my classmates and my elders plodding along, so prudent, so unimaginative, and I feel this urge I can't suppress to… to…"

"Drink their pain like fine wine?"

"Something like that, yes. It's like a roiling storm of rage and defiance in my soul."

"That's very interesting."

"Really?"

"No. I've heard better from Earth teenagers."

"Oh. Well, if you're going to insult my diction, can we get this over with, then?"

"Let's." The therapist took up a form covered in red boxes and fine print and looked it over. "Tell me about your mother."

"Must I?"

"It's considered good form."

Theta stared at the ceiling from the couch. "She was in textiles."

"Have you experienced any conflict stemming from that?"

"I could fill volumes."

"And your father?"

Theta smiled. "I'll always associate him with orange skies. I remember once—"

"Confusing childhood resulting in moderate alienation and poorly formed concepts of morality, check. Moving on: psychosocial development?"

"I'm sorry, are you asking if I know what it is, or if I've had any?"

The therapist squinted at the form. "If you've had any. Rather, if there's any you haven't had that you were supposed to. I don't suppose _your_ House forgot to put you through the Social Adjustment gene therapy section?" he said on sudden inspiration. "That's always good for getting a major pathological character flaw ignored for an improbably long time."

"…No."

"Ah. We'd best concentrate on your relationship with authority, then."

"Not good with authority," said Theta.

The therapist muttered something that sounded a bit like _News to Harriet Jones_, but Theta supposed he must have misheard.

"Would you say that your problems with authority figures stem from a deep-rooted sense of inferiority?"

"I'd say they stem from a deep-rooted sense of boredom."

"Yes, Theta Sigma, you and every other soul ever to pass through the hallowed halls of higher learning. But would you be willing to _say_ that they stem from a sense of inferiority? If, for example, the dean asked you?"

Theta struggled with himself. He struggled for a whole minute. "Not really," he finally conceded.

The therapist was silent for an interval that happened to coincide with the average period of time it takes to count to ten in Gallifreyan. "Well, what would you be willing to say when the faculty inevitably ask whether you're sorry or not? And before you answer," he said tightly, "have a care and remember that other peoples' histories may depend on you."

"Well," said Theta after some thought, "I'd be willing to say that I am sorry, and leave out 'that I got caught'."

The therapist's pen moved over the form. "'Acute mortification over some past episodes, which the subject tries to obscure through chronic self-contradiction'. Fine. You'll have to start attending Ethics as a show of good faith, though."

"Is Ethics absolutely necessary for commanding the power of time travel?" said Theta petulantly. "I detest Tutor Borusa's class. His lectures are interminable, his lip gloss disturbs me, and he calls me undisciplined and neurotic. Do you think I'm neurotic?"

"And how."

"What?"

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Not very much."

The therapist sighed and gave him a pointed look; Theta tried again. "Er. Bereft and trapped?"

"Better." He ticked a box on the form and glanced at his watch. "You know, restrictive societies like ours are very stressful for an energetic young lad. You need an outlet. I, for example, like to write fiction about friends and adversaries who battle exhilaratingly, coming together in heated—but never mind that," he said hurriedly. "You need something more hands-on. Stealing transport, say. And someone to do things with; do you have any friends?"

"I recently met a boy called Koschei—"

"Sounds ideal. See more of him."

The therapist stood and signed the completed form with a stab. "There. Successful counselling, signed and attested to by…" He quickly consulted the nameplate on the desk. "…me. I believe that that ought to satisfy the dean's office. Pending processing by the appropriate staff, you are once again a student of the Prydonian Academy of Gallifrey."

"Just like that?"

"Give or take some creative filing, yes. Oh, one final piece of advice: If you're going to make a career out of being renegades, you and your absolutely splendid young friend Koschei may want to consider the use of pseudonyms. Proud though you doubtless are of your incursions into the faculty network to reroute traffic from the Ethics syllabus to primitive Terran musical artifacts, it's not especially discreet to do it under the login of 'Theta Sigma' with all 317 yobibytes of your biodata linked straight to it."

Theta pondered that. "I suppose not."

"Make an effort to be remembered for something more interesting than that. Both of you."

Theta squinted at him suspiciously. "Why are you helping me?"

"An excellent question. Let's not answer it."

Reluctantly, Theta extended a hand, though he lowered it when it conspicuously wasn't taken. "Thank you. I owe you… my career, I suppose. But you never gave me your name."

"No, I didn't, did I?" The therapist steepled his gloved fingers and tapped them against his lips. "Just remember me as the Doctor."


End file.
